


Promises Kept

by EllieL



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-30 00:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16754365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieL/pseuds/EllieL
Summary: Diana promised to hold Philippe's hand in the darkness.





	1. Chelm

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Book of Life, vaguely in the future

Only after a lengthy afternoon’s discussion with Alain did we arrange a quiet afternoon between Yule and Christmas to keep a promise I’d made long ago. Matthew knew I was going to timewalk back to keep it, but thankfully hadn’t pressed me for details. He’d agreed to take Ysabeau out for a ride while I went back, leaving the twins in the care of Marthe.  
  


Alone in the library at Sept-Tours, I opened myself up to the magic now inside of me. I no longer needed anything to timewalk but the knowledge of where and when I was going; I knew exactly where and when I was going now. That room would be seared into my memory for the rest of my days, and it took only a little more effort to find the weft to follow back through time than I did to find the place.  
  


With one step, I was in a pitch dark, freezing cell at Chelm. Alain had informed me that after months of torture, Philippe had be abandoned here to die slowly. They’d thought it was a miracle he was still alive when they found him, after weeks of starvation and blood loss. I knew it was less miraculous and more magical.  The smell of death permeated the chamber, nearly overpowering, but I could still detect the faint rosemary and bay from the far corner.  
  


One star point of light flared and floated up to the ceiling, enough to illuminate everything I needed to see in the tiny room. A dark, hulking form curled in the far corner, dirty and bloody and indistinct. A whimper like a wounded animal came from it at the light, and it seemed to curl further in on itself.  
  


“Philippe,” I whispered, loud in the stillness, all my willpower going to keep my voice from breaking. “Philippe, it’s your daughter. It’s Diana.”  
  


In three tentative steps I crossed the room, while reaching out with a shimmering string of brown. I traced his injuries, assessing. He’d been wounded just enough to prevent his vampire’s blood from being able to heal him, just a few too many wounds, a fraction too close to major blood vessels. Blood was everywhere, dried, sticky, covering his skeletal form, what remained of his clothing, the floor.  
  


There was a part of me that wanted to hold his hand and say goodbye, end his suffering there. But I knew that I could not alter the past that way. Nor could I let Philippe end his life in this place. And I could see the life fading from him, and knew that unless I helped him, he would not live through the night.  
  


Instead, I knelt and took his hand, heedless of the blood and other gore coating it. His fingers were twisted like trees after a lightning strike, broken and healed malformed, unable to return my grip. I squeezed it between both of mine instead, as gently as I could. He moaned softly, seemingly unable to form words, but plaintive, heartbreaking.  
  


“I’m here to help you, Philipe. Can I do that?”

 

His remaining eye blinked open then, crusted lightly with dried blood, the eye itself bloodshot and struggling to focus. The pupil widened then contracted, finally sharpened in recognition. He blinked, once.  
  


“I promised you I’d be here for you when you needed me.” I wasn’t sure how much to tell him, how much he could understand. But I also realized that I was going to have to come back again, and again, and ultimately remove all these memories before his death, before Matthew might see any of it. “I’ll try to come see you as much as I can.”  
  


Philippe’s eye widened in panic, horror twisting his face.  
  


“Not here, Philippe. I promised you I’d hold your hand in the darkness, remember? It’s darkest tonight. But tomorrow will be brighter. Ysabeau will arrive, with Matthew and some of your knights. They’re coming to take you home to Sept-Tours.”  
  


His face softened, relaxed. He seemed to take a deep breath, but his entire body shook.   
  


It took very little magic to heal the wounds to his blood vessels, allow the tissue to knit itself back together. The wounds were surgical, precise. Healing those would be enough to ensure he made it through the night. There was so much else he needed, but was beyond what I could do.   
  


I looked down at the tangle of his fingers between my own, wishing they were as easily mended, or the oozing socket where his eye had been. Magic could heal a simple wound, but it was not an antibiotic or an orthopedic surgery. It was beyond vampire blood too, I knew. Had there been any possibility there I knew Matthew would have exhausted it.  
  


His whole body seemed to relax a little then, as it stopped losing blood and began to heal itself. He looked at me, squarely, cracked lips trying to form words but failing.  
  


“There’s so much to tell you, since I saw you at Sept-Tours.” I settled down beside him, tried to move him as little as possible but still give him some comfort. “We made it home, eventually. Matthew and I have two children now. Twins. The oldest is Rebecca, after my mother, and our son is Philip, after you.”   
  


I kept talking, telling him about our life at Les Revenants, in New Haven, about the twins favorite foods and favorite stories. I told him those stories. I recited some of the songs Matthew had sung to the twins and to me, in a jumbled mess of French and Occitan.   
  


When the first tangerine hints of morning touched the edges of the paneless window, I stopped talking. With one last squeeze of his hand, I rose on numb and unsteady legs. “Your family will be here soon. I’ll see you again at Sept-Tours, Father.”  
  


Difficult as it was to step away from him, it was easy to find my way home. Time led me straight back to Philippe’s office at Sept-Tours, the same faint bay and rosemary scent I’d just left still lingering here as well. I sunk to the floor once more, glad to have soft carpets under me rather than cold filthy stone, and wept.  
  


I was there less than a minute before there was a soft knock at the door, and Matthew stepped inside. He was beside me in an instant, and hesitated for only a second before his arms were around me. “ _ Dieu, ma lionne. _ Are you hurt?”  
  


My head shook against his chest, and I wrapped my arms tighter around him in response. I took several long, deep breaths, shuddering, trying to breathe in the comforting scent of Matthew and get my emotions under control. I didn’t protest when he picked me up off the floor to sit in his lap, enveloping me but asking nothing more.  
  


Eventually, I managed to whisper, “He would have died there.”  
  


Matthew pulled away from me enough to tilt his head and look me in the eye. I was expecting to see the pain he still carried, but there was nothing but empathy. “None of us could understand why he hadn’t. Now I know that you allowed him to come home.” He kissed me once, softly, on the forehead. “Thank you.”  
  


“I couldn’t do more than keep him alive.” I hung my head.  
  


“No one could. And you know you not to change the past like that, even if you could.” He smoothed the hair back from my face. “Let me take you upstairs for a shower. You smell of blood and Philippe. And you’re freezing.”  
  


I nodded, and let him lift me to my cold, nearly-numb feet. “I told him I’d see him again. Here.”  
  


“That will be easier, but not by much.” His arm wrapped around me, keeping me close as we left, for the moment, Philippe’s office.


	2. Sept-Tours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My office is no longer an office, it is a sickroom. It would be a liminal place, if I could more easily pass from it. 
> 
> Philippe POV

Artemis had saved me, glowing bright as the full moon on that long dark night. My life was nearly gone, after so many millenia, seeping slowly away until I could feel the call of Kharon to his ferry. But she has always had a greater plan for me, even when I did not see if for myself.    
  


I do not see it now.   
  


I cannot awaken in tears, or in horror, because I no longer sleep. It had been years since I wanted to rest, wanted to close my eyes and forget for just a while. Centuries since I had felt any pain like this, had forgotten that there was pain that there was physical pain that did not heal so quickly, so easily. It had been Jerusalem since I had gotten involved personally, had been so careful to keep myself safe, to never risk the entire family in one conflict, on one side of any conflict.   
  


Every one of those conflicts was once sharp and clear in my mind, and I could recall every king and every battle, every soldier and every trench, every shot and every horse. Now they exist only in flashes, in the ache of an old sword slice and the pain of a foot broken under a hoof, the blur of too many Kings Louis and the sensation of kneeling in cold wet mud.    
  


My office is no longer a hub of strategy and planning. Telegrams and messengers pass by my door, letters are no longer delivered to me. I do not know what is happening. I only know that I would not know where to send soldiers, would not remember what is flying in the sky over head, do not know where all of my family is, even now. Some came to save me, some have come home in passing, some send notes from the other side of the world, the other side of the front.    
  


Which front are we behind, I wonder aloud, just a whisper in the silence.     
  


My office is no longer an office, it is a sickroom. It would be a liminal place, if I could more easily pass from it.    
  


I can sense Diana again now, the room no longer empty, the childhood scent of honey from the wildflower meadow all around me. It has been many years since I have felt longing for that place, but I wish for it again now, not this cold room. I know it waits for me, not far away.   
  


Now I can speak to her, greet her as my daughter. But she is more, she realizes now as she did not when I first met her. As I did not when I first met her. No one ever recognizes the deities until they reveal themselves.   
  


Today she tells me of more justice she has wrought, of Covenants undone and freedom to love. She loves my son, against all odds, after all these years. They are happy, she tells me, and that bit of hope is almost enough to make me want to go on, to see them together again.   
  


But when she leaves, the pain that had eased in her presence returns, washing back over me like a rogue wave. I am capsized in it, struggling to find the surface.   
  


When Matthaios comes to sit with me in the evening, his face is more somber than ever. My duties are already weighting his shoulders. He offers to play chess, as we once did so often, offers to move the pieces when my gnarled fingers cannot.    
  


I no longer remember how to play the game.    
  


When she comes again, she has a child with her, perhaps four or five. At first I think it is magic, a shade of myself as a boy. He greets me as boldly as I would have done, but those eyes are not what mine were, they are the same bright blue as Matthaios’.    
  


Philip, she tells me, Philippe, she tells him, your grandfather.  He looks at me in wonder and awe, not fear and pity as others have in recent weeks.    
  


They stay longer than she has any time save that first night. With the ease of a child he tells me tales, too, rambling and unedited, as I know she does. He tells me of his grand-mere, of her showing him my sword, bigger than himself, of his sister, of happiness at Les Revenants, of things I had forgotten. He has a griffin, he says, and asks if I know what that is.   
  


I knew gryphons once, long ago, I told him. I could almost see them again, fierce creatures men had long forgotten. I told some of what I knew to Pliny, and he believed every word, even those I made up. Your mother will read you his book, I am sure.   
  


It was the most I had said since returning, and the young man took it with an assurance that belied his age.  She looked heartened, and took his hand then to depart, and again, it was almost enough.   
  


Ysabeau sits with me through the night, reads from volumes once thought lost, in tongues now forgotten by most outside these walls. I ask for Pliny that night, wanting to remember my visit to the gryphons. She does not remember them, certainly does not believe me when I tell her she will know one. The concern is back in her eyes, and she looks at me for only a moment before focusing on the tome before her, unwilling to meet my eye.   
  


At least she is agreeable about the reading if nothing else.   
  


There is a girl one afternoon, dark next to her mother’s light. She is one of us, yet a child. And there is something else in her too, not as powerful as her brother but sharp, bright. I once encountered a creature very like her, sometime long ago and far away. But she is more.   
  


She is more cautious than the boy though no older, measuring the words even in her child’s tales. Rebecca tells me of riding her pony Estelle, of her favorite books. She tells me they saw whales at the cape, but does not tell me which cape.    
  


I too have seen whales off the cape, I tell her. They do not live as long as we do, but they are old creatures. Perhaps it was the same whale.   
  


For a moment, she considers, then nods. Perhaps it was. They come back the same place every year, she says, and you can track them online.    
  


I can see her path clearly, as I have not seen anything since I was taken. I know she will be a scholar like her father always wanted to be, like her mother. I know I will not see whether it is the whales she studies, or something else.   
  


When they are gone, I sit by my fire. The desk is close, would be in arm’s reach if both my arms worked. There is nothing for me there.    
  


When she comes again, she is alone, but not quite. She sits in the chair across from me, softer, rounded with child.    
  


She does not shrink from me in pity as the others do, but reaches out, holds a hand that cannot hold hers, places it on the swell of the child. Her fingers sit on jagged scar across my wrist, still pink, which she cannot fail to notice. She does not mention it, merely shifts my hand until there is movement under my palm.   
  


Your third grandchild. She smiles at me, happier than anyone I’ve seen since before the war started.   
  


Your Matthaios is happy.    
  


Yes, she nods, still smiling, like all those painters wished they could capture in their Madonnas.    
  


I do not need to tell her my Matthaios is not. She knew already how this would end, as I have only slowly come to realize, in fits and starts. She does not need to know that look in his eyes, as he wrapped my wrists and met my eye.    
  


The measure of my days is taken, and she is here to say goodbye. 


	3. Khaire

I had to come when I was happy, when there was good news to share with him. I could not heal him, nor twist out the threads of his life any further, for I’d already interfered to extend his allotted time; magic has its limits. But I could give him a few final moments of goodness before it all was taken away from him.

  
Before Matthew had to take it all away from him. I wished, for the thousandth time, that there were some way to ameliorate this for both of them.

  
There’s a hint of what used to be a smile playing at his lips, as the baby moves under his hand. His eye meets mine, and I can still see, for just a moment, what he was, what he has lost, the chasm between them.

  
I open my mouth to speak, but cannot find the words. The baby somersaults under our hands, so I simply let us remain there, still. There is nothing more I can give to him, nothing else in these final moments that could bring greater comfort to this man who loved his family above all else.

  
His family would take care of him now, give him these last small kindnesses, this last bit of mercy.

  
“I know.” He nods once, his head heavy and hanging. “Tonight.”

  
“Y...y-yes. I have to leave you before then.” I choke back tears, glad he’s not looking at me, can’t see them threatening to spill from my eyes.

  
For years, I’ve known this moment was coming, that I would have to do this. The inevitability hasn’t made it easier.

  
The magic I have worked to come to Philippe over the years, to let him meet his grandchildren, to help him while I was here, has been exhausting, but it has been something that has helped, has healed, has been a work of creation. It brought me tears of exhaustion, but also joy. Now I must work something more difficult, darker, more destructive.

  
He looks up at me again. “Thank you, my daughter.” He is still, serene. He has accepted this, has asked for this.

  
I have allowed him to ask for an ending, to choose his ending. To be at peace here in his home.

  
_“Khaire, Philippos_.”  

  
Slowly, I rise from the chair, kiss him on each cheek. He closes his eye, drops his head. I take one long deep breath, feel the baby still, the whole world still and slow around us. It feels like I’m moving through gelatin as I step around behind the chair, place my hands on his temples. He is still, accepting.  
  


With a shuddering breath, I close my eyes and reach out, into what remains of Philippe’s mind. It is easier than I expect, all resistance shredded away. This is not the first time someone has taken away his thoughts, not the first time he has allowed his thoughts to be taken. 

  
And his mind is shattered, broken into pieces like stained glass after an explosion. I recall suddenly what Matthew had told me, that his memories had been like swallowing shards of glass. For a moment I wait, try to see them resolve into something more, into a parable or a tree of life, but they remain singular pieces. It’s difficult to sift my way through them, sort out what memories are of us, my children, myself. Already broken, they’re so fragile, dissolving at minimal probing, like spun sugar.

  
Philip and Rebecca vanish, cracking pieces of memory related to griffins and whales. I see a fearsome creature with talons, a ship floundering off a rocky coastline. Memories are linked, pearls on a rope, and removing one sends the whole thing quaking and shifting. In destroying memories of my own wedding, I also further fracture a queen with a steely visage gracing him with the  _ planta genista _ chain he’d gifted to me that day, and the memory of the priest in Saint-Lucien.

  
At this point, does it matter what else I might shatter?

  
I can only hope I’ve gotten them all, or those clear enough that they would reveal anything meaningful to Matthew if he does see them. There is no magic in all the world that could smooth out these memories like seaglass, make it easier for him when he takes Philippe’s life, much though I wish I could. It took a darker magic than I ever want to conjure to do this to a mind, and like his body, it is beyond my powers to heal.

  
The urge to linger, examine more of Philippe’s vast memories, is strong. There is so much here, more knowledge of history and literature and Matthew than I’ve ever been tempted by before. But these are not my tales to know. And I am exhausted; the powerful magic required to remove memories is draining, and I still have to timewalk home. I slip from his mind, carefully slide my hands from his temples, and step back, away from his chair.

  
“Who’s there?” His voice is drunken, slurry. For a second I think he’s noticing the scent of me, then I hear the rasp of the iron latch on the old door, and the creak of the heavy oak door on old hinges.

  
There’s no time to linger, to hold his hand here. Philippe no longer needs reassurance in a dark night, and I cannot encounter this Matthew here, much as he is the one who will need reassurance about this moment, which will not arrive for many years. I hear the edge of his voice around the opening door as I take another step back, and into the weave of time, homewards. My Matthew will be waiting for me there, in our study at Les Revenants, with a pot of mint tea and an empathetic embrace.

 

***


End file.
